Anthony exhaled sharply, muttering a hushed, “Bloody hell,” as he sat at his desk, shoving a pile of papers aside. His fingers closed around his late father’s pocket watch, the weight of it familiar yet no less burdensome. He turned it over in his palm, his jaw tightening as he drew in a slow breath through his nose.

The past weeks had been relentless. The endless payments for his sisters’ modiste fittings, the upkeep of the house, the planning of balls and social engagements—every responsibility fell squarely upon his shoulders.

And he had no one to blame but himself. Such was the burden of being the Viscount, the head of the Bridgerton family. He was not only responsible for himself but for his siblings, for his mother, for the very legacy his father had left behind.

And yet, amidst the chaos, there was you.

The soft creak of the door drew his weary gaze upward, and there you stood, peeking into his study with a gentle smile. At the sight of you, Anthony felt his tension ease, a quiet sigh of relief escaping him.

“My dearest,” he murmured, the corners of his lips lifting ever so slightly as he reached out, beckoning you closer.

Obediently, you stepped inside, shutting the door behind you before making your way to him. The moment you were within reach, his hands found your waist, pulling you effortlessly into his lap. He wasted no time, pressing a lingering kiss to the delicate skin just beneath your jaw, his breath warm against you.

“How I’ve missed you, my liege,” he teased, voice low and smooth. One hand came up to brush a stray lock of hair from your face, his touch reverent. “And to what do I owe the honour of such a lovely visit?”